Every morning at exactly 7:00, Aarav's mother would knock on his bedroom door.

“Wake up, beta. Your tea is getting cold.”

Aarav would open one eye, pull the blanket over his face, and mumble, “Five more minutes, Maa.”

And every morning, his mother would smile.

“Five minutes becomes an hour with you.”

She would leave the cup of tea on his table and walk away.

Aarav never noticed that she always made his tea exactly the way he liked it.

A little milk.

Two spoons of sugar.

And just enough ginger.

He never thanked her.

He thought mothers were supposed to do these things.

Years passed.

Aarav grew up, got a good job, and moved to another city.

On the day he left, his mother stood at the door with tears in her eyes.

“Call me when you reach,” she said.

“I will, Maa.”

“Eat on time.”

“I will.”

“Don't work too much.”

“Yes, Maa.”

“And—”

“Maa,” Aarav laughed, “I'm not going to war. I'm just moving to another city.”

She smiled and wiped her tears.

“I know.”

Then she quietly said,

“But for a mother, every time her child leaves home, it feels like a little piece of her heart is leaving too.”

Aarav hugged her.

“Don't worry. I'll come back soon.”

He didn't.

His job became busier.

Calls became shorter.

“I'm busy, Maa. I'll call you later.”

“Beta, have you eaten?”

“Yes, Maa.”

“What did you eat?”

“Something from the office.”

“Take care of yourself.”

“Okay, Maa. I have a meeting.”

And the call would end.

His mother never complained.

She simply waited for the next call.

Sometimes she would call him just to hear his voice.

Sometimes she would have nothing important to say.

“Beta, today I made your favorite kheer.”

“Oh.”

“I remembered how much you used to like it.”

“That's nice, Maa.”

“Are you busy?”

“A little.”

“Okay. I'll let you work.”

“Thanks, Maa.”

She would hang up smiling, even though her eyes were wet.

One winter evening, Aarav received a call.

It was from his mother's neighbor.

“Beta…”

Something in her voice made his heart stop.

“Your mother isn't well.”

Aarav immediately booked the earliest flight home.

For the first time in years, he wished he could turn back time.

When he reached home, the house was strangely quiet.

His mother's favorite chair was empty.

Her glasses were still lying on the table.

Her knitting needles were beside them.

And on the kitchen counter was a cup of tea.

Cold.

Aarav stood there silently.

“Where is Maa?”

The neighbor looked at him with tears in her eyes.

“She was asking about you until the end.”

Aarav couldn't breathe.

He walked into her room.

On the bedside table was an old photograph of him as a child.

Behind the photograph, his mother had written:

“My son may grow older, but he will always be my little boy.”

Aarav broke down.

He held the photograph against his chest and cried like a child.

For years, he had been too busy to talk to his mother.

Now he had all the time in the world.

But she wasn't there to answer.

That night, Aarav went into the kitchen.

Without thinking, he made himself a cup of tea.

A little milk.

Two spoons of sugar.

And ginger.

He took one sip.

It tasted exactly like his mother's tea.

He closed his eyes.

And suddenly, he could hear her voice again.

“Wake up, beta. Your tea is getting cold.”

Aarav smiled through his tears.

Then he whispered,

“Maa… I'm awake now.”

But there was no answer.

Only silence.

And a cold cup of tea sitting on the table.

Years later, Aarav had a son of his own.

One morning, his little boy came running into the kitchen.

“Papa! Can I have some tea?”

Aarav smiled.

“You're too young for tea.”

His son frowned.

“Then what can I have?”

Aarav picked him up and hugged him tightly.

“Anything you want.”

His son laughed.

And in that moment, Aarav finally understood something his mother had known all along:

A mother's love is not measured by the big things she does.

It lives in the little things we don't notice—

the warm food, the late-night calls, the reminders to eat, the waiting at the door, and the cup of tea that is always made exactly the way we like it.

We often realize the value of our mothers only when their voices become memories.

So if your mother is still there…

Call her.

Ask her how she is.

Tell her you love her.

Because one day, you may have everything you ever wanted—

except the person who was always waiting for you to come home.

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